These Hands of Mine
by kirana44
Summary: I used to enjoy sleep before I met you. Before I knew you, I would enjoy my dreams. I didn't have nightmares then...Bakura-centric oneshot possible hints of Tendershipping


**Authors note:** One of my very best, this was written on a whim, as most of my fics are. This was almost completely unplanned, it came about only because I asked myself the question: "How does Ryou feel about all this?" Because, you know, I wouldn't really like to be mind controlled. And if I were, I sure as hell wouldn't want to be aware of the fact. As I started thinking about it, some sentances came into my mind, just one or two, questions that I could imagine him asking Yamibie (my nickname for Yami Bakura, BTW) if ever given the chance...and I loved what I was thinking, so I wrote it down. I was actually hesitent to upload it anywhere, since up till this point, I hadn't written anything so dark before. All I'd done were fluffy dramas with only hints at angst - I'd never gone the whole hog with it. But the thing is, my pride with my work made me want to show it to anyone with eyes. What's hilarious is that, according to a friend of mine, there are massive hints at Tendershipping in this and that there are loads of sexual undertones - something I never intended at all. I think it's great that I managed to create such an awesome unintended effect (it really WAS unintended - I normally dislike tendershipping on the grounds of LOGIC). So yeah...

Yu-Gi-Oh! and everything in this fic belongs to Kazuki Takahashi.

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Why do you use these hands of mine? Why must you use me to steal, torture, and even kill? Why do I now have blood on these hands of mine?

I used to enjoy sleep before I met you. Before I knew you, I would enjoy my dreams, bizarre flashes of images that never made sense. I didn't have nightmares then. I liked dreaming. Now all I see in my dreams is your evil smirk, a contortion of a face that reflects my own, and hear your maniacal laughter created by my own vocal chords. I used to go to bed knowing that I'd feel refreshed and happy in the morning, but now I wake up exhausted and covered in dirt and sometimes blood, the evidence of a strange night that I'm glad I don't remember. I don't even want to know the kinds of things you've used me to do, the kinds of things my body does while I think I'm asleep. I don't want to know if I'm a murderer or not.

Why do you speak to me? Whispering in my ears, malicious and mocking, knowing that I'm the only one who can hear you. It's bad enough at home; there, I can shout and scream at you to leave me alone to get on with my life, but at school, in the street, it's worse. In public, I can't let anyone know that anything's wrong. So I have to smile, put up with you and your lies, pretend that I don't hear you and carry on with the conversation I was having before. But you don't like being ignored, do you? You **want** me to notice you, to accept that **you're **the boss, not me. So you leave your mark, finding painful ways of getting me to give you my undivided attention. You've been making the headaches worse, haven't you? At the moment, my skull is aching dully, the pain a continuous thump behind my eyelids. And I won't ever forget the chest pains, so acute that I feel I'm going to die if it doesn't stop, shredding my ribs with every beat of my wretched heart.

Do you realise how lonely it is? Not being able to tell anyone what exactly is wrong, not being able to say why I'm so ill all the time, not being able to explain why I'm transferring schools yet again? I always think of something, though. I never run out of excuses. I could never tell anyone the truth. They wouldn't believe me. Who would? And even if they do, they'd hate me for it. People would think I'm a freak if they knew you're there. My friends know. They know and they've met you and they hate you so damn much, but they don't hate me. I'm their **friend**. Of course they don't hate me, I'm their friend! But they think you're gone. They think everything's fine, that nothing is wrong, that I'm finally **normal**. But they don't know you like I know you. You're still here. They think you're gone, but here you are, still lurking around in the shadows, waiting, plotting vengeance on those who are already dead.

I've tried to get rid of you. Of course I've tried! What sane person wouldn't? When I found out what you were, the reason you came into my life, I tried to throw you away. Even other people have tried. You've "died" at least twice that I'm aware of, sent into the oblivion of darkness and death. And still, you come back. I don't know how, but you do. The ring always seems to find it's way back into my hands, no matter how far I throw it. And every time, I put it back on. Why do I do it? Why welcome you back? I guess it's because the ring itself really means a lot to me. To throw it away would be the same as discarding the memory of my father, who gave me the ring, my own flesh and blood. And I guess that, innocent and naïve as it is, I always seem to forget how dangerous you are. I'll get the ring back and I'll swear to myself "never again!" and then, as you stay completely silent for days on end, sometimes even weeks, I come to believe that you're gone, that the ring is somehow safe. So I'll put it back on, only to feel you leap back into control once again. And besides, even without the ring, you still manage to find me, haunt me, chase me to the edge of madness and back again. Sometimes I'll be unconscious for a long time, waking up to find that hours, sometimes even days, have passed. Do you know how terrifying it is? How horrified I am when I hear your laughter whilst my eyesight dims? Waking up, knowing that I've done something that I really can't remember, but I know it's something bad? And knowing that the only response I'll ever get is your laugh?

I'm trying to think of ways to get rid of you for good, to free myself from your grasp, but my only strategy I can think of will most probably lead to my own death as well. And believe it or not, despite all the terrible, unknown things I've done, I want to live. I want to live without the fear that you'll always be there, watching me, always waiting to pounce. But despite my loathing of you, my fear of you, I know that not even my most desperate plan will work. All that will happen is that I will die, and you will simply wait until you have another host. All that will happen is that I will transfer my suffering to someone else, and I can't let that happen. So I keep it all to myself. I tell myself that, one day, something will happen - a miracle from God, perhaps - that will destroy you. Until then, I have to tolerate you. I must endure, and pretend that nothing's wrong. But the one question will always haunt me, even after you've died: Why do I have blood on these hands of mine?


End file.
